


Rinse, Repeat (Freckles, Shake)

by Goodluckdetective (scorpiontales)



Category: Red vs. Blue
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Gen, Gen or Pre-Slash, Nightmares, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-22
Updated: 2015-05-22
Packaged: 2018-03-31 18:59:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,537
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3989137
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/scorpiontales/pseuds/Goodluckdetective
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What if Tucker was the one who yelled “Freckles Shake” and Wash was the one in the cave?  A character study in a different world. </p><p>(Can be read as Gen or Pre-Slash)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Rinse, Repeat (Freckles, Shake)

_“Freckles, shake.”_

***

       The first time Wash woke up, after, he didn’t remember at first.

       It wasn’t an uncommon occurrence, forgetting. Since Epsilon, since everything, keeping his thoughts in track had been a struggle. Just when he first woke up. So when Wash opened his eyes with Leonard/David/Washington as his name all at once, he didn’t remember the canyon. The battle. Locus.

       “Freckles, shake.”

      And then he did.

      They we’re all waiting around his bed, when he first woke up. Sarge, Donut, and Lopez. Lopez was missing his body once again, and Donut was cradling his helmet as he stood in front of Wash’s head, like one would a small child. It was hard to tell Lopez’s mood when none of them knew his language and he spoke in a monotone, but given the use of the word “puta” Wash doubted the robot was happy about his current predicament.

      “Hey look, our boy is awake!” Sarge’s said, taking notice of Washington opening his eyes for the first time in weeks. A smile was on the man’s face, a gruff one, but the “our” was enough for Wash to notice his tight grip on his chair.

      “Where are they?” Wash didn’t have to specify. Donut’s shoulders slumped in a way that could almost be called comical, and Sarge’s smile vanished from his face. Lopez was just quiet.

       That was all the answer Wash needed.

       He’d failed.

***

       Griff was on the ground, knocked out from being shot in the fucking chest, and Wash needed to get there right now and check for a pulse because he saw the shot slam Grif into the ground and-

_“Freckles, shake.”_

***

       He went to Felix first for information.

      It wasn’t that he didn’t trust Kimball. Far from it, actually. The woman, despite being barely older than himself, seemed to be holding her makeshift army together rather well, given the circumstances. She was honest, aware of troops morale, and highly intelligent. Considering the gamble that was taking sides on just a word, Wash figured he got off very lucky.

      But Kimball’s virtues were the same reason he couldn’t go to her. Kimball wasn’t like Locus. Kimball wouldn’t slit a man’s throat to make a point. Kimball still believed in some universal good.

      Felix didn’t. Which meant, if he wanted the truth about what was happening to his men, Felix would know the answer.

      It wasn’t pretty.

      “I’m gonna be straight with you,” Felix said, straddling his chair. He looked exactly like Wash expected out of his armor, most of his body scarred except for his face. He was the type to care about that sort of thing. “Locus? Knowing him, he views your buddies as a nuisance. A pain in his ass. Not that he’s wrong, I mean that blue one, jeeze-”

      “Keep on topic.” The growl that was his voice seemed to catch Felix’s attention. The merc held up his hands.

      “Didn’t mean to touch a nerve. Okay, back to my point. Locus, he thinks you guys are weak shit. And since your friends are valuable, he’s unlikely to kill em’ unless keeping them is more of a threat than it’s worth.”

      It wasn’t good news, but it wasn’t bad news. He could work with this. He just needed to get to his men before they decided to do something stupid. He could do that.

      “Unless,” Felix said, thoughtful. “Unless, one of them decides to try to fight back. Locus...well he was a bit…” he trailed off, trying to find the right words. Wash didn’t think he’d ever seen the motormouth do such a thing before. “Well, let’s go with a hot head. He doesn’t like being prodded.As long as that isn’t a problem, they should be fine for awhile.”

      Wash felt his mouth go dry. Caboose, Caboose would likely annoy his captor but not enough for Locus to kill him. Griff and Simmons were both capable of being a pain in the ass, but they never managed to deliver any fantastic insults besides “suck it Blue!” But Tucker-

      _“-but instead I'm stuck here with you!”_

      He wouldn’t realize until later that he whispered Tucker’s name right then and there, in a whisper that could only be labeled as horrified. He wouldn’t realize until much, much later, that Felix smirked right then and there in the darkness of the loading bay.

      He didn’t realize a lot of things.

***

      Caboose was fighting with all he had, trying to keep everyone away from Simmons who was trying to pick off soldiers as they got closer and close, and Wash couldn’t do this again-

_“Freckles, shake.”_

  
_***_

      He lost his cool at their very first group meeting.

      He didn’t want much. Just a truck, himself, and a few weapons. Enough to save his crew. He’d thought it out; he knew how stretched for resources the rebellion was and he planned to use as little as possible. He didn’t want to waste any excess precious resources.

      Apparently, his own life was enough of a precious resource to get a no every time.

      “I don’t think you understand,” Wash said, getting so close to Kimball that he could see his breath on her visor. The doctors had yet to give him back his helmet, so that they could see if his stitches ripped again (a rock got him in the collapse pretty bad). He hated it, hated how naked it made him feel, how it showed his freckles, his scar, his dumb baby fat that still hadn’t vanished despite years of growing up. “I am going to take a car, get my men back, and you aren’t going to stop me.”

      Kimball, to her credit, didn’t even flinch. “Yes, I will. You’re still recovering, Agent Washington. You leave? You get yourself killed.”

     “Not for sure.” It was a hiss.

     “Sir,” one of Kimball’s advisors, a wiry guy with a pair of glasses that reminded him of the director, grabbed his shoulder. “You must think of your own worth. As the last surviving member of the blue team-”

      That was all he got out before Wash decked him right in the face.The freelancer ended up knocking out five of his teeth.

      “Served him right,” Donut said later, as they gathered over their rations in the mess. They’d taken all their helmets off, letting them rest besides them on the bench. Almost all of them had helmet hair, besides Sarge, whose hair somehow remained in a standard military cut.  “Implying such nonsense. Our guys can take a-”

      “Quit while you’re ahead,” Sarge said. Lopez mumbled something in Spanish, his helmet seated in the middle of their table. Sarge reached for a bread roll and added it to Wash’s plate, barely eaten. “They’ll be fine. Red team doesn’t quit easy. And I’m the only one allowed to kick blue ass.”

      Wash was silent. The last surviving freelancer (well, before Carolina showed back up). And now the last surviving blue?

      No. Not again. Never again.

***

      Tucker stumbled back to his feet, and Wash couldn’t help but feel the slightest bit of relief because he wasn’t dead, thank God, until the bastard opened his mouth and-

_“Freckles, shake.”_

***

      The day they tried to give him a squad, the day they tried to make him a Captain, Wash slammed the door so hard on his way out that it dented the wall.

       Donut found him later, curled up next to a fallen sandbag with bloody knuckles. He sat with him for a bit, not saying anything as Wash watched the blood drip from small cuts on his hands in tiny rivulets. It seemed so small to the rivers of blood he’d seen, in the past. His own blood was just runoff now, fragments of a bigger disaster.

       “If I lead, I’m going to get them killed,” is all he said after thirty minutes. It was a statement, not a question. Donut just leaned up against him, using his thin frame as a support beam.

       “ If you don’t, they’ll die anyway,” he said in a whisper, Iowa accent bleeding through. Wash looked at him, really looks at him, at his bright blond hair, big eyes, and starburst scar that takes over his entire right cheek. Donut, the man he shot in cold blood less than two years back. Sometimes, like now, Wash wondered if he could have lived with himself if Donut didn’t make it.

       He wondered if he’d ever be able to live with himself, even though Donut did.

       Wash got up after that and headed back to his room, Donut on his heels. The younger man didn’t follow him into his quarters though. He knew better.

       The next day, Wash was Captain Washington, leader of Blue squad, and he hated the title more than he’d hated any other name in his entire life.

***

_“No!”_

      That was all he got out before a rock nailed him in the back of the head.

      It wasn’t enough.

***

     Three weeks later, three weeks after failed drills and teenagers trying to hold guns like men, they steal a car.

     It wasn’t the Warthog. But it had wheels. It’d do.

     The note they left was only five words long. “We’ll be back. With friends.”

***

_“Freckles, Shake!”_

**Author's Note:**

> Renaroo made some great fanart for this here: http://renaroo.tumblr.com/post/121794130756/i-have-a-lot-of-pages-in-my-sketch-book-and-most


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